


sovereign

by Cymothoe



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Abortion, Angst, Blood, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Medieval Medicine, Mpreg, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Vomiting, mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:20:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23061589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cymothoe/pseuds/Cymothoe
Summary: Jaskier's choice is taken away from him. Geralt helps him take it back. (Please read and heed tags).
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 43
Kudos: 449





	sovereign

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first story I have posted anywhere in 15 years. I hope that you will like it.

The attack came so quickly Jaskier almost didn’t even have time to be frightened. There was just the brigands, the fight, the two good hits he landed in the first man’s kidneys before the second man had his hands twisted behind his back and the third had a fist in his mouth, smothering him before he could cry out for Geralt. Not that he would have distracted him while he was in combat with a full-grown kikimora on the other side of the water. Why had anyone even entered this swamp while it was infested? Sometimes, greed and foolhardiness led people to try and poach one of Geralt’s contracts, letting him do the hard work and hoping he’d get wounded and be unable to stop them making off with the head. That hadn’t happened since Jaskier had been around, to help guard kills and killer alike, he was proud to say. 

These men wanted something else, though.

And even when he realized, as his breeches were torn open and his legs kicked apart, he felt too much anger and disgust for fear to truly take hold. 

The fear would come later.

****  
It had been five weeks. Jaskier had refused a healer, accepted a new suit of clothes, raged, wept and on some days behaved remarkably like his usual self. Geralt, for his part, had decapitated the brigands, located and razed their base camp, gone in search of soothing balms more suited for a human than the witcher-stuff he carried, and worried endlessly. What on earth was he supposed to do? 

When Jaskier started vomiting, he tried to insist on another healer. Jaskier ignored him for the better part of a week, and Geralt was loath to force the issue. He reminded himself that Jaskier needed to know he was in control of whatever happened now, to his body, to them. Geralt was there to facilitate his wishes, in whatever belated, insufficient way he could. He just didn’t know if he could maintain that principle as Jaskier got sicker.

****  
_What is wrong with him?_ There was an obvious answer, but Geralt simply didn’t know how that awful hurt translated into this physical affliction. Jaskier trembled, often, more during the night - that was not surprising. Geralt tried to ensure he was always awake to see Jaskier drift off, and then awake before him again in the morning. It wasn’t too difficult - witchers didn’t need a lot of sleep, and a witcher on watch took even less. It was important for Jaskier to know he was protected.

Jaskier was quiet, mostly, variously sharp-tongued and timid when he wasn’t. Geralt preferred his barbs to his hesitancy, suspected Jaskier did too, but strove to meet all moods with steady assurance. He knew he should be saying something; if he couldn’t restore with words the way Jaskier did he should at least fill the silence, but his tongue lay thick and helpless in his mouth. 

_Is it an infection?_ Geralt had cleaned Jaskier’s wounds himself, in a moment of wordless horror. He showed signs of a growing fatigue, but none of fever. Maybe the brigands had...given him something. One of the few jokes at Kaer Morhen was about the clap and how witchers didn’t need to fear even the filthiest whore, but Geralt had never heard of such an affliction that presented itself like this.

****

Geralt tried to broach the subject twice. The first time may not have counted, because he really didn’t know what he was dancing around. All he knew was another breakfast was ending with Jaskier on his knees in the mud, hacking half-digested bread into the fire-pit. 

“Jaskier.” He wanted to be wrapped around him, supporting his forehead, rubbing his back. Jaskier hadn’t let him do that recently.

“Give me a moment! Gods…” He sat back on his heels, and then slumped, abruptly, onto his rear, legs weak and rubbery-looking.

“You’re sick, Jaskier -”

“I can tell, thank you!”

“I mean, you’ve been sick. You need to visit a healer, or a mage, or…” Or someone. Someone who would know what to do. Someone better than Geralt.

“No.” There wasn’t much to say to that. Geralt had heard Jaskier scream the word, in the last moments before he reached him under a cluster of rutting men, eyes black, both swords drawn and much too late. Jaskier had muttered no almost compulsively as Geralt had gathered him up, tried to pull together his clothes, performed field medicine neither of them would ever speak of, just yards and minutes away from where he’d slaughtered the rapists. Jaskier needed his no to be heeded.

“Jaskier…”

“I’m going back to bed. I can meet you in the next town if you need to be on your way.” Geralt scoffed. He knew Jaskier didn’t really believe he’d leave him there, huddled alone in a bedroll, skin pale and mouth drawn tight. Surely Jaskier couldn’t believe that.

He walked towards Roach, meaning to remove her saddle for another day in camp, when he heard Jaskier’s sharp indrawn breath, just barely audible before it ended. He whirled around and came back to where Jaskier lay, hands hovering over his shoulder, frantic to touch him and also terrified to do so.

“Are you hurting?” Jaskier shook his head, more by grinding his face into the ground, eyes still scrunched closed. “I’m not leaving, Jaskier. Just getting Roach settled. We can stay here as long as you want.” Jaskier took in another breath, then let it out in half a sob. His hand snaked out from the blankets and groped blindly for Geralt’s. When Geralt took it, held firm, Jaskier used him as a lever to come upright again, falling into Geralt’s embrace as he crouched there amongst the leaf litter.

“Please don’t…”

 _I won’t, ever._ Won’t leave, won’t push, won’t touch until he’s bidden to - and Jaskier had bidden him now, clutching him close and whining, softly, as he pressed his forehead into Geralt’s chest. “Shh, darling.” He hadn’t used words like that since the last time Jaskier had woken up, tense and twitching and so unbearably fragile. Geralt’s words hadn’t done much, then, either. “Shh, my love.”

“I’m sorry I’m being so much trouble -” this statement was even more ridiculous than the one suggesting they would part ways, but Geralt couldn’t scoff at the man trembling in his arms. “I just need some more time, nothing more. I’ll feel better soon, Geralt, can you just give me some time?”

“Of course I can.”

****

Geralt kept his word, but Jaskier couldn’t keep his. The sickness lingered, stretching from dawn to noon and then intermittently afterwards. The bones of his wrists and cheeks became more prominent as he stopped bothering to eat what he could rarely keep down. Geralt visited healers on his own, although only in towns where they’d taken a room and Jaskier was tucked up safe inside. Even then he didn’t like to be gone long. He’d get advice - never detailed without the patient present, and some herbs that never worked, and if he saw something unique to eat on the way back to the inn, some unusual confection or particularly fresh fruit, he’d buy it, in the hopes that perhaps novelty could tempt his lover’s beleaguered stomach. Jaskier would scowl at him for wasting the money.

This continued for another month, broken up only with a couple simple contracts. He hated to take them but they were running out of coin. He’d never collected his pay for the kikimora - Jaskier had only wanted _away_ , and they had ridden through the night - and Jaskier didn’t play the lute anymore. He didn’t sing even when they were alone.

****

Twilight, tiny village, healer a charlatan who barely even tried to hide it. Geralt ducked under the low doorway, coming back to their room as quietly as possible in case Jaskier was sleeping. It seemed he was, but hardly well - the bard was slumped half on the bed, naked to the waist, boots still laced, a washrag in his hand and a basin on the table. He couldn’t even stay awake long enough to clean himself. Geralt sighed and approached the bed, meaning to at least tuck him in. He’d sleep on the floor - Jaskier shouldn’t come to with an unexpected body beside him.

Drawing near, Geralt gazed at Jaskier’s body, meaning only to see if his ribs were showing yet. His abdomen was flat below the soft thatch of hair, but his nipples were dark, puffy. This would have meant little without the weeks of nausea, but - 

A memory drifted up, of a conversation overheard in a brothel, an older whore advising a younger one. Geralt hadn’t paid it any mind. This was business for women, and even if it also pertained to the very occasional man, it certainly didn’t concern a witcher.

Except now it did. Understanding and horror and a desperate sort of sympathy flooded him. Did Jaskier suspect? Was he afraid to tell Geralt? Or was he as unawares as the young whore had been - not blithely innocent but heedless, all the same, of what his attackers had left in their wake.

“Jaskier.” He wanted to wake him gently, without having to put a hand on his shoulder. How could he say this? What right did he have, just because he loved him? 

He’d meant his voice to be soft, but Jaskier woke instantly, and drew the coverlet over himself before even his eyes were even all the way open. 

“ ‘M tired. Stop staring at me.” There was a defensiveness that Geralt had noted before and misinterpreted completely.

“Jaskier, it’s been two months.” He settled down onto the stool by the bed. It wouldn’t do to loom over Jaskier for this conversation.

“Three, actually.” Jaskier spoke quickly, sharply, then looked around like he’d startled himself by acknowledging the swamp.

“I mean, since you’ve been getting sick. You’re not getting better. All you want to do is sleep-”

“Well, I’m sorry to be so lazy these days, but we can't all heal like witchers.” His tone was scathing and Geralt knew exactly what he was trying for. A fight, to distract Geralt, change the subject.

“You aren’t eating, you’re exhausted and you won’t see anyone. We need to talk about -”

“What, Geralt! What do we need to talk about?” And as Jaskier’s eyes blazed into Geralt’s, he realized that Jaskier didn’t need to be told anything about the truths of his body. At least, not at this point. His face was red with fury, and - shame? Geralt didn’t think he could bear to see him ashamed. He lowered his gaze.

“I will help you, Jaskier. Take care of you. Whatever you need. But you can’t just...run away from this.”

Jaskier deflated, just bitterness in his voice now. “Couldn’t seem to run from much of anything.” 

A few moments later, he rolled over and pretended to sleep again.

****

Two silent but generally peaceable days later, they were camping in the woods again. Jaskier had held onto him in the bedroll last night, stroked his hair even, pressed a kiss to his collarbone. Geralt almost wept with gratitude but didn’t dare to break the moment. He had thought these touches lost, perhaps forever, whether through Jaskier’s original misfortune or his own pitifully fumbled response. He tried not to sleep, soaking up the closeness, but eventually woke up to find Jaskier already dressed and fussing over Roach. Something seemed to have shifted. He waited, patient, cleaning his swords in the early morning light.

“I’m ready to admit it now.” Jaskier settled beside him on the log, staring into the damp remains of last night’s campfire. Geralt just twitched against him, wanting to protect him from the conversation he’d tried so hard to avoid. They needed to have it, though.

“We’ll do whatever you want.” That was the most important thing to get across.

Jaskier hummed, but seemed to take him at his word. “You don’t seem very surprised at all this. I mean, that it’s even possible.”

“I’ve seen a lot of strange things. Cases of men like this crop up now and again. Usually magic is involved somehow, but some are just...different.” He left the question unspoken, but Jaskier answered anyway. It seemed he had decided to start talking again.

“It’s a genetic quirk that runs in my family, I’m afraid. May have been magic at the outset, but it's just not much talked about these days, of course. They did say my great-grandfather might have also been my great-grandmother, in a sense, but it usually skips a few generations. Was hoping it had skipped mine.” He leaned his head against Geralt’s shoulder and Geralt remained very still. He didn’t know what to say. “Geralt.”

“Yes?” He couldn’t ignore him.

“We fucked the very morning you took the kikimora contract.”

It seemed Jaskier was ready to talk about many things this morning. It had been the seventh time ever, which Geralt had thought was pretty good considering they'd only been at this new incarnation of _them_ for a month at that point. It had also been the last time, of course. “I remember.”

“I know what happens at Kaer Morhen. But is there - is there _any_ chance this could have come from you?” Jaskier was staring at him, pleading, and for all their years together Geralt couldn’t determine which answer he was hoping for. All he had was the truth.

“No. The effects of the trials can vary, in some cases. But that one is always the same. There aren’t even any legends about it, any more than that we can fly.”

“I thought so.” Jaskier’s voice was soft and his eyes were downcast.

No witcher in history had ever fathered a child, and Geralt wasn’t going to be the first. But perhaps he could provide something still -

“I will claim it, though. If you want.” The words came out in a rush, and Jaskier looked up, sharply. He breathed in through his mouth, lips slightly parted, but said nothing. He was waiting for Geralt to continue. “No one will believe it’s actually-” _mine_ “- but that doesn’t matter. We could get a house somewhere. I would take only contracts nearby. Safe ones. Or perhaps Oxenfurt; you could teach music. We could….live there.” He tried to put everything he was offering into those two words. 

“You would do that? Give up the Path? Raise a brigand’s bastard in _Oxenfurt_ of all places?” The color was high in Jaskier’s cheeks. Geralt could tell he had surprised him, and mourned for it.

 _Anything, absolutely anything, only ask it of me -_ “If that’s what you wanted.” For a moment, he could see it - the house, the quiet - and the noise! - even the child, but only its eyes. Jaskier’s blue eyes far in the future, and then he blinked, meeting those same eyes in the present. “Is it?”

Jaskier breathed out in a long, tired gust of air. His shoulders sagged but his head remained high. “No. I want my life back.” He sounded sure, and for the first time, settled. He took Geralt’s hand with a confidence he hadn’t shown since the swamp.

House, noise and any other eyes receded into the distance. There was a small part of Geralt that sorrowed and a greater part that was relieved. He felt, strangely, that he would have been relieved at any decision Jaskier made - that as long as Jaskier had taken back his sovereignty, all could be well. “All right, then.” He picked up Jaskier’s hand and kissed his knuckles, chaste. “We’ll find a midwife in the next town.”

****

It took several towns, actually - to find one that didn’t chase witchers out at the gates, and then that was big enough to have its own midwife, and then a midwife who’d know something of Jaskier’s uncommon condition. This first woman they met was apologetic and clearly curious; Jaskier suffered her fascination with dignity until she recommended a cousin of hers, a midwife-apothecary, in the next valley. It would take another week to get there.

Geralt worried. Jaskier seemed calmer, steadier, with his decision made, but the morning sickness never let up and he was dizzy, sometimes. He rode on Roach, Geralt keeping her pace easy so as not to jostle him, with his back pressed against Geralt’s chest. He didn’t talk much. Sometimes he’d doze, and Geralt, tentatively the first time, wrapped an arm around his waist to make sure he didn’t fall from the saddle. That’s how he realized Jaskier’s belly had begun to swell.

He urged Roach a little faster after that.

****

The midwife’s shop was worn but clean, the air thick with herbs. Geralt was prepared to do the talking, but Jaskier forged ahead and explained what he’d come for. The old woman only seemed moderately surprised, and not in the way they’d expected. She glanced between them, noting Geralt’s hand on Jaskier’s back, and pursed her lips.

“You’ve got some courage, then, to cuckold a witcher.”

Geralt slammed his palm against the counter. “That is not what happened,” he snarled out, between gritted teeth, chest suddenly heaving. 

Jaskier just glanced at him, and Geralt subsided, ashamed. He wished Jaskier had been false to him. A hundred willing trysts with stableboys or lordlings would have been preferable to that one terrible violation. He wanted the old woman to respect that Jaskier had suffered, but it seemed Jaskier wanted only to be brief. “Leave off, Geralt. It’s none of her business anyway.” 

“True enough.” The hag was rude but not stupid. “About my business, then. How many months gone are you?”

“Four. Almost.” Jaskier’s voice remained steady. The midwife clucked her tongue in disapproval.

“Well, then, the decoction will need to be strong.” She was already taking up sprigs of dried things, measuring and grinding - Geralt tried to monitor them but he didn’t recognize most. These weren’t witchers’ herbs. “Make a tea with this - one cup of water with the whole packet that I give you. Don’t vomit for at least the first hour, or you’ll waste it.” Jaskier nodded and Geralt shifted closer. The midwife looked at him. 

“Will it hurt him?” A useless question, at this point. When was the last time Geralt had stopped Jaskier from being hurt? 

“What do you think, witcher? Bleeding and groaning are normal, and don’t bring him back here for a fever, either. That just means it’s working.”

“What if -” _Childbirth is more dangerous,_ he reminded himself. He just couldn’t help the fear.

“If it doesn’t work at all, or if he’s still sick three days after, then you can come back. I stand by my remedies.” 

****

They waited until the afternoon, whenever Jaskier usually threw up less, and took a small upper room in a quiet inn a few classes above their usual lodging. It was near the edge of town, surrounded by a few outbuildings and the edge of the forest. The walls and floors were well-scrubbed and the bed made with thick white sheets. Geralt busied himself with the fire. Jaskier brewed the tea himself. It seemed important to him. He swallowed it down without fanfare, grimacing at the bitterness.

“Gods, that’s...strong. Guess we weren’t cheated.” Jaskier made a strange attempt at a smile, and licked his lips clean.

“How do you feel?”

“In this exact moment? The same. Impatient. Oh, fuck, nauseous…” Jaskier moaned and doubled over in a way that had become familiar, and Geralt was at his side in an instant.

“You’re okay, just breathe in…”

“Don’t wanna throw up-” Jaskier’s throat worked convulsively and he coughed, eyes watering. 

“You won’t, come on, darling, deep breaths.” Geralt stroked his neck and chest, and then, when that seemed to calm him, lower. Again his hand came to rest on the unwelcome bulge between Jaskier’s hips as Jaskier’s stomach wrenched, hard. For a moment, he let himself seethe with hatred at everything that had happened, then forced his rage down again as Jaskier began to relax.

“I think I’m okay. Yeah, I’m - I’ll be okay.” His breath came hot and damp and scented with something botanical. Geralt lowered him onto the bed, stroking the hair out of his eyes. “I guess we just wait, now?”

“Yeah. What can I get you?” They had water, and wine, and clean linens. The old hag hadn’t recommended much else.

“Nothing. Stay?” The first word was murmured, eyes shut, while the second came more urgently. Jaskier was still gripping onto his hand.

“Of course I’m going to stay.”

“It might get...unpleasant,” Jaskier said, in a warning tone. Geralt knew that. For a moment, Geralt was grateful he wouldn’t have to see Jaskier in childbed. It was so risky, probably more so for a man. Surely this would be safer, easier. 

“Jaskier, I kill monsters for a living. You’re not going to shock or disgust me.”

“At least not with this, eh?” Again, Jaskier seemed to be trying to smile.

“You really are relieved, aren’t you?” Jaskier nodded and Geralt let the first wave of calm approach him. “That’s good. I’m sorry we didn’t take care of this sooner.”

“That was my fault.” Jaskier spoke almost idly, and the calm washed away in a sudden tide.

“None of this is your fault!” He was breathing hard, all the rage he’d swallowed forced back up like bile. “None of it!”

Jaskier looked at him, like he was taking his measure. “It isn’t yours, either, you know.”

“You don’t need to be worried about me.”

“I want to.”

“You want to worry about me?” The idea seemed absurd, but then Jaskier had a way of making absurd things seem obvious. Necessary, even.

“Yes. I want to wash your hair, and fret over your wounds and roll around with you in the night-time. I want to play my lute again. I just....haven’t. I’m sorry for pushing you away all this time. This has all gotten me a bit...fucked up.”

“I’m hardly someone who needs an apology for that. Either of those things.” Jaskier just snorted in reply.  
****

The pain came, relatively soon, slow at first, just as had been promised. It built, as the day passed on, cramps and shaking taking hold of Jaskier. Geralt hadn’t smelt any blood by the time the sun set, but he knew it was inevitable.

“Do you think it’s safe to vomit now?” Jaskier was panting, on all fours, rocking his hips back and forth. Sweat stuck his chemise to his back, but he hadn’t wanted Geralt to remove it.

“It’s been hours. I’ll get you a -” And as Geralt reached for the basin he should have had ready, Jaskier’s whole body clenched and he pitched forward, long strings of drool trailing from his mouth. He cried out, for the first time, but brought nothing else up. Geralt grabbed him just before he went face first on the bed.

“Oh, darling.” He kept using that word. He wondered if it would be tainted after all this. Jaskier had sunk into his arms, weeping now.

“It hurts. I want it to stop.”

“It will stop.” Geralt wiped Jaskier’s mouth with his own sleeve, and rocked him since he was too weary to do it himself.

The blood came shortly after, in spurts, as Jaskier groaned and ground his teeth against the pain. Geralt helped him undress, finally, head swimming with sorrow at the sight of blood on his clothes once again. He proffered wet cloths, a mouthful of wine, a hand supporting Jaskier’s head as he drank. He wondered if he should be saying something.

 _It will stop. This will be over soon, and then you can rest, and then we can do whatever you want. Go anywhere. A vacation, even. You’ll be able to eat again, and I’ll bring you all the best things, and you’ll get strong again. You are so strong._ He did say that last part, out loud, but wasn’t sure if Jaskier heard it.

****

Another endless hour, differentiated only by the pace of Jaskier’s panting. He writhed on his back, fingers groping at the flesh of his lower belly, just above his pubic bone. “I can feel it, right there. Why won’t it come?”

Geralt hesitated. He knew nothing of this, beyond what everyone knew. “Maybe - maybe you need to bear down.” Jaskier’s eyes popped open, weariness and resignation filling the blue. When the next cramp seized him, the muscles in his neck stood out and Geralt knew he was pushing. Nothing happened.

“Get me up.” The command in his voice startled Geralt, after so many hours of quiet, and he was slow to respond. Jaskier dug his hand into the sheets and curled his body, trying to squat. By the time Geralt had his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders, steadying him, he was groaning again, and a sluice of clear fluid came out of him to mingle with all the blood. “Ah-ah! It burns-” and something slipped from him, solid but still and about the length of Geralt’s hand. Another gasping breath, another long groan and a slough of membranes followed, like a shimmering cloak. Then simply more blood.

"Is it -" Jaskier's voice hesitated, just as his hand paused, halfway, as he'd started to reach between his legs. He clutched at Geralt's side instead. "Is it -"

"It's done," Geralt assured him, as Jaskier slowly exhaled and pressed his face into Geralt's shoulder for one more hard breath. Nothing in the world could have made Geralt lose his grip on Jaskier in that moment, save when Jaskier’s own hands shuffled him off, as Jaskier shuddered his way on to the pillows, eyes shut tight. He was panting again, but in the way of a runner at the end of a race, or a beast at the end of a hunt. His breaths lengthened as the minutes passed, and Geralt longed to offer him something, some comfort or restorative, but he first gathered linens, wrapped up everything Jaskier had borne, and waited for Jaskier’s choice. After a few minutes, he held out his arms, eyes still closed. Geralt was startled again, but passed over the bundle, which Jaskier accepted gingerly.

“Poor little thing.” There was sadness in Jaskier’s voice, but not regret. “It didn’t ask for any part of all this.”

“It’s a shitty fucking world, Jaskier. There are worse fates than not existing in it.” By now he had crept back to Jaskier’s side, and carefully placed an arm around his shoulder again. Jaskier leaned into him. “What do you want me to...do?” _What do you want me to do with it?_ Geralt’s stomach rebelled at the inadequacy of all he could offer right now, bewildered with the sheer physicality of the tasks ahead.

“Cremation.” There was finality in Jaskier’s voice as well. “Now, please.”

It was the middle of the night, and it was snowing, but that was no reason for a witcher not to set a fire in the woods. The reason was Jaskier, pale and clammy and surely not fit to be left alone in his bed of blood? “You must need something. Let me get you -”

“Now, Geralt. I’ll be all right.” Jaskier’s arms were shaking, as though the weight of the bundle was more than it appeared. Geralt nodded, and dared to press a hard kiss into his temple as he rose. The sigh of relief Jaskier gave when he took the linens from him sped him onwards, down the stairs, out past the stables and the woodpile, into a cold clear space between two pine trees, where just a little snow was speckled onto the mess of shed needles. Jaskier had carried this burden for four months, Geralt for only a few minutes, but his arms were already heavy. He had hated this creature, and had also been prepared to love it. He laid the bundle where the pine needles were thickest, like a nest, and cast Igni twice, to make the fire hot. There was smoke, and the smell of blood and pine, and fairly quickly there were ashes. 

****  
By the time Geralt returned, Jaskier had kicked off all the soiled bedclothes, and was lying curled in the centre of the stained mattress, shivering with cold. Geralt cursed and rushed to him with the cloak he’d left draped over their saddlebags, covering him up to his neck. “I’m all right,” Jaskier repeated, though his voice was no stronger than it had been. “Better now.”

“Hard to be much worse,” Geralt grumbled, frisking his hands up and down Jaskier’s wool-draped arms, trying to warm him. “I’m going to pick you up and flip the mattress, is that all right?” 

Jaskier nodded. “We’ll have to leave extra coin in the morning.” He was a lump in Geralt’s arms, weak but not limp and for that Geralt was grateful. In the moment when Geralt pressed him closest, cradling him in one arm as he rearranged the only bed they had, he felt Jaskier’s flinch as another cramp rippled through him. “I’m all right,” Jaskier said for the third time, like he was trying to convince someone. “They’re getting easier.”

“I can go get that hag.” He would drag her out of her bed, three days or no. All Jaskier had wanted was for this to be over. Why wasn’t it over yet? “Is it supposed to still hurt?”

“I think so. I think it will hurt for a while yet, but it feels...normal? I don’t know, I’ve never done this before,” and Jaskier almost laughed, wetly, sweaty hair against the pillow.

“You’ll never have to do it again.” The iron in Geralt’s voice broke the peace of the quiet room a little. Of all the things he had tried to protect Jaskier from, this was never something he had expected to reckon with. Jaskier had chosen, unfathomably, to love a witcher and there were so many reasons why that should have spared him this particular grief - even as it imposed on him many others. A shitty fucking world, indeed.

“Do you want to bathe?” The whole inn was asleep but he could draw water from the well the same as any maidservant.

“Just with the rags. We’ve got some water left?” At Geralt’s nod, Jaskier smiled ruefully. “I may have been a bit premature letting you out of the room.”

“What happened?” Geralt was seized with a sudden panic. He knew he shouldn’t have waited to see the fire through, but it -

“Oh, nothing.” Jaskier’s voice was calming and a little surprised. “I just meant I don’t want to be by myself for a little while.”

“I’m here.” _I’m here, I’m here, I’m here. Only let me, and I’ll stay by you forever._


End file.
